“It’ll take at least two days,” he told me as we drove over the moors. “I’m leaving first thing in the morning. Of course, many of the songs will be duplicates of ones I’ve already found, but I expect to discover …” I only half listened, my mind whirling. Edward was so enthusiastic about his good fortune that he hardly noticed my silence. Bella and Alan were already at the house when we arrived. Edward kissed me casually on the cheek, said he hoped I got a good night’s rest, and promised to come see me as soon as he returned to Castlemoor.
That would be tomorrow. Today I faced long, solitary hours that would sap all my energy and drain my emotions. I wished I had asked Bella not to go. She would gladly have stayed, but I would have had to make some kind of explanation for the request. Never before had I felt the isolation of this house so strongly. It was as though the moors were a vast, empty sea, the house a solitary vessel anchored in the middle of it. The land undulated like gray waves, and the whistling of the wind only intensified this feeling. I had the feverish sensation that the house might sink, exactly like a boat, and be swallowed up by the land, the sea.
I felt I was losing my mind. I knew I couldn’t go on like this. I had to find something to hold on to.
The portrait Damon Stuart had painted of my brother stood on the desk, beside the carved-ivory elephant. That so-familiar face stared up at me, ruggedly handsome, alarmingly lifelike. The touseled golden hair looked as though it had just fallen across his forehead, and the wide pink mouth, curled with humor, seemed about to speak. The blazing brown eyes held mine, and they were very stern. What’s all this nonsense? they seemed to inquire. Hardly your style, old girl, this. Sitting around, brooding, feeling sorry for yourself—that’s not my Kathy. Better do something, right? Where’s the old Hunt spirit?
My mood lifted, almost as though Donald had actually been speaking to me. I could feel his presence here in this small room filled with his books and papers, and it comforted me. I would go make a pot of coffee. I would cook something for lunch, and this afternoon, as soon as I’d finished eating, I would start to work on the book, despite the headache, despite the desolation. I would also draft the letter I knew I must send to the police. I didn’t want to send it, but I knew I had to, even if it meant the arrest of Burton Rodd.
I went into the kitchen and dropped coffee beans in the grinder. I put water on to boil, ground the beans, and made the coffee. I sliced bread, and took the ham out, carving off two thin pink slices. All the while my mind worked coldly, methodically, all emotion repressed. I had been hysterical after I found the body, and yesterday I had been prostrate, still too stunned and shaken to see things clearly. I had to inform the police of what I had seen in the woods. It had been insanity to wait this long.
Burton Rodd had appeared suddenly at the scene of the “accident,” much too suddenly. He had examined the body and declared the death an accidental one. How could he be so sure? Why had he insisted so firmly? He ordered me to keep quiet about what I had seen, and, numb, bewildered, I had agreed. If he had not been responsible for Bertie’s death, then why had he been so determined that it be kept quiet? I remembered those few minutes in his arms, and I shuddered now to think I had been in the arms of a murderer.
There were so many things still unanswered, but it was safe to assume Burton Rodd had murdered Bertie Rawlins. There could be no other explanation for his strange conduct. I had to face the truth, however unpleasant it might be.
I had just finished drinking my first cup of coffee when I heard someone pounding on the front door. The noise echoed through the house, loudly, persistently. An unreasonable panic seized me. I almost dropped the empty cup I still held. I stared about the room frantically, looking for a place to hide. My pulse leaped, and I could feel the skin drawing tightly over my cheekbones. The pounding continued, shattering the silence that had prevailed a moment before. I stood up shakily, scolding myself for this absurd reaction.
I opened the front door. Nicola stood there, her fist raised ready to knock again. She stepped inside quickly without saying a word. I closed the door, puzzled. I noticed that she carried a large flat brown box. She went into the study and set the box on the desk. She stood in the middle of the room, looking around at the books. When she saw the portrait of Donald, she started. She moved closer, examining it, and then she looked up at me.
“For a moment I thought it was Jamie,” she said.
“Did you—want something?” I asked. The words were ludicrous under the circumstances, but I could think of nothing else to say.
Nicola didn’t reply. She seemed not to have heard me. She wore a cloak of heavy dark-sapphire velvet, the hood fallen back to reveal her jet-black hair falling in loose, lustrous waves as it had been the first time I saw her. There were spots of color on her cheeks, and her lovely face was serene. She took off the cloak and draped it over a chair. Beneath it she was wearing a dress of sky-blue silk that emphasized her mature bosom and slender waist. The nervous child had disappeared. She was a woman, beautifully poised, completely self-possessed.
Nicola looked at me with a frank expression in her black eyes.
“I’m really not mad, you know,” she said quietly.
“Nicola—”
“Don’t say anything,” she interrupted me. “Don’t apologize, don’t try to reason with me. I’m not mad. They—they would like to have believed I was, but I’m not, and after today I’ll no longer have to pretend. I will be free.” She smiled, a pensive look on her face. “Dorothea is going to be amazed at the change in me. I’m glad. I think she and I can be friends now, away from Castlemoor.”
“You’re leaving?”
“In thirty-five minutes,” she replied calmly.
“Dorothea is going with you?”
She nodded. “Burton is driving us to the station this afternoon. He’s quite eager to get rid of both of us—for reasons of his own. There was a spectacular scene with Dorothea. She had no intention of leaving. Burton insisted. He called her a coward, said she was afraid to face the world. She threw a vase at him—quite priceless, a Ming. She said there wasn’t anything in the world she was afraid of, and he said she was afraid of herself, and she called him an unnatural son, throwing his mother out into the cold, and he said cold, my ass, you’re going to one of the most exclusive resorts on the Continent—they went on like that for two hours.”
“Wasn’t this all—rather sudden?” I asked.
“The decision to leave now? Yes, but when Burton makes up his mind to do something, he wants it done immediately. Yesterday morning he came into the breakfast room and announced his decision. That’s when he and Dorothea had their fight. He wanted us to leave then and there; I mean, he actually wanted to put us in the carriage as soon as we’d finished breakfast. After she’d made up her mind to go, Dorothea said it would take at least a week to get ready. He said now or never. She said he was insane. They compromised—he would pay for complete new wardrobes if we would leave today. We are going to spend a week in Paris, buying clothes.”
“He seems anxious to get you both away from Castlemoor,” I said.
“I know. It’s not—natural. Something is wrong, but—I don’t care about that. I’m leaving. That’s the important thing. And Dorothea is radiant. I’ve never seen her so excited, so happy.”
“And you?” I said hesitantly. “You don’t look—unhappy.”
“This is the happiest day in my life. After today, no more Castlemoor, no more dark halls, no more noises, no more Buck. Sunshine, green leaves, fresh air, and people—lots of people. The place will be swarming with men, handsome men, young men, rich, rich men. I plan to pick one out and elope with him.”
“Indeed?”
“I don’t think I’ll have too much trouble,” Nicola said firmly. “When we get to Paris, I’m going to select a stunning wardrobe—red satin, gold lamé, black velvet, and I’m going to have my hair done in a new way, very chic. I’ve just been reading about Lola Montez—I look like her, did you know that?
She captivated the world. I think I can manage to captivate at least one suitable man. I can hardly wait to get started.”
“If you’re leaving in”—I glanced at the clock—“in twenty-five minutes, why did you come here? Surely they don’t know you’ve come?”
She shook her head. “I slipped off. Typical behavior, to be expected of me. I went to my room to say good-bye to my dolls.” She laughed softly. “Dorothea was pleased. They won’t miss me. They’re busy loading the trunks and making last-minute lists. I’ll join them in the courtyard just in time to leave.”
“How did you get away without them seeing you?”
“There’s a little side door in the south wall. Everyone else has forgotten about it—the wood’s warped, the latch rusted. The boughs of the oak trees bend down and hide it from outside. I discovered it years ago. I’ve found it very convenient.”
“Why did you come? Not just to say good-bye?”
“Not just to say good-bye,” she replied. “I wanted to show you something.”
She stepped over to the desk and opened the flat brown box. I was nervous and apprehensive, suddenly afraid. Nicola took out the white hood and flowing white robe. A piece of material had been torn out of the robe, a piece the size of the square now hidden in my bureau drawer. She spread the robe over a chair, dropped the hood on top of it. She was calm, but I could see that she was being deliberately dramatic.
“My ghost,” she said simply. “That day on the moors, I told you I saw a ghost slipping down the hall. I—I still didn’t understand everything then. I thought it really might have been a ghost, that I really was losing my mind. I know better now.”
I managed to look at the robe without revealing any of the horror that seemed to freeze my blood.
“Where did you get that?” I asked. My voice was quite steady.
“Night before last I saw my famous ghost again, going down the stairs that lead to the dungeons. I didn’t panic—for once. I told myself I had to see. I waited a few minutes and then started down myself. I was about halfway down when I saw a white blur in a niche in the wall. I reached up and found these.” She indicated the robe and hood. “He’d left them.”
“He?”
“Buck, of course.”
“Why—why would he have done that?”
“Following instructions, I suppose.”
“Whose instructions?” I asked carefully.
“Burton’s.”
“I see.”
“No,” she said calmly, “I don’t believe you do. I don’t know why it should be so important to me that you understand, but it is. Perhaps it’s because you tried to be kind to me and because I was rude to you. I know I wasn’t making sense for a while. No wonder you thought me mad. They almost succeeded.”
“Succeeded in what?”
“In driving me mad.”
I didn’t say anything. Nicola perched on the arm of the sofa, spreading the light-blue silk skirts out. She was beautifully composed, her face registering no emotion. Her voice was cool and controlled.
“I know what that sounds like,” she said. “I know a doctor would say I was suffering from delusions, that I had a feeling of persecution, but there’s no other explanation for it. I did see those things. I did hear those noises.”
There was another explanation, but Nicola could not know about it. By accident, she had been exposed to a tiny part of a great intrigue, and she could only relate it to herself.
“Burton was trying to drive me mad,” she said. “Buck was helping him do it.”
“Why—why should Burton want to do that?”
“I don’t know. I suppose he thought Dorothea was going to leave me her jewels—what few there are. Perhaps there’s some other reason I don’t know about. Anyway, there’s my ghost—a white robe and a hood with holes cut out for the eyes. Quite real. Everything else was real, too.”
“What about Jamie?” I asked. “You said you saw him.”
She shook her head slowly, and her eyes were sad. “I don’t know what happened to Jamie,” she said quietly, “but I—I didn’t see him.”
“You imagined it?”
“I saw someone who looked like Jamie,” she replied.
She glanced at the portrait of Donald. I remembered Bertie’s words. I understood them now.
Nicola talked on, not aware of what she had just told me.
“I don’t understand it,” she said. “I won’t even pretend I do. Burton is a strange man. He always has motives for everything he does. If he wanted to—to send me away, he had his reasons. Well, I’m going now. I will be out of his way. He can have Dorothea’s jewels. He can have everything. I only want to get away.”
She stood up, pensive, her fragile face suddenly very young. She began to put on the dark-sapphire cloak, adjusting the heavy folds about her shoulders, pulling the hood over her head. I watched as though in a trance. The room seemed to spin around, slowly at first, then faster and faster, and I was amazed that I could stand quite still and watch her so calmly and not fall over. Pushing a jet-black curl away from her temple, she took my hand and peered into my eyes.
“I must go now,” she said.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Is something wrong? You’re pale. Your cheeks …”
“No,” I said, my voice steady now.
Nicola looked relieved. She smiled.
“I’m going to be happy, Kathy,” she said. “I wanted you to know. I haven’t been happy before—not really. I’m going to forget Castlemoor and start a new life. I was quite serious about eloping with a millionaire. Of course, I’d like a title, too. Maybe I’ll find a duke or marquess, or even a Russian prince. I know I’ve read too many novels, and happy endings are supposed to be bunk, but you just wait and see. I’ll write.”
I walked to the front door with her, still in a trance. I opened the door for her, and Nicola stood on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek, then hurried toward the slope, her dark-blue cloak billowing behind her. I did not know if I could make it back into the study. I braced myself against the wall and closed my eyes. After a moment the dizzy sensation passed, and I was able to reach the sofa. I sat there for a long time, my eyes closed, my cheeks burning, my whole body limp and empty. Only the monotonous clicking of the clock broke the silence that settled over the house.
The giant jigsaw puzzle that had been haunting me for so long was fitting together. Each piece, mysterious in itself, fit neatly with another to form the complete picture. It was horrifying, but as I sat there in the silent house, shaken, stunned, I realized that the picture was real. As I worked on the puzzle, a curious calm came over me. I wanted to cry, to swoon, to resort to every known feminine trick in order to avoid the truths that presented themselves, but I couldn’t. My mind was cool, sharp, pushing me toward the inevitable conclusion, and I knew I must act. I sat, and I thought, and all weakness dropped away.
Donald had come to Castlemoor to do a book on the Celtic religions. He had intended to send for Bella and me, but something had changed his mind. His last letters were mysterious. Maud had told me that he had worked himself into a state of nervous exhaustion, and Edward had verified that, adding that my brother had given way to delusions about cults and ghosts. The “accident” happened on the moors, and my brother’s body was sent to London in a sealed coffin. The coffin had never been opened.
I came to Castlemoor, and on my first day I encountered the overwhelming superstition of the local folk. Was it just superstition? Alan thought so. He had recounted the story of Ted Roberts, the local drunk, who saw figures in white chanting and dancing among the ruins where a girl was tied to one of the phallic columns. Milly Brown’s body was found shortly thereafter, and although Alan was convinced she had been murdered by her lover, others were not willing to accept this explanation. Neither was I. Not now. I did not believe in ghosts. I did not think Milly had been butchered by a band of phantoms who walked the ruins at night. I believed Ted Roberts had seen his figures in white, and I believe
d them to be as tangible as flesh, as tangible as the figure I had seen down at the river’s edge.
The first time I saw Nicola, she had told me of her “nightmares.” She told me of seeing a figure in white moving down the halls of the castle and going down the steps to the dungeons. She told me about Jamie, the golden-haired young stable boy who had been discharged and, subsequently, disappeared, leaving Castlemoor without a word to anyone. Later, at the bridge, Bertie Rawlins made a curious sign, frightening me, and, convinced that I was not “one of them,” told me about his brother. “They got Jamie,” he told me. He mumbled about “the secret of the stones,” and I had passed him off as a harmless eccentric. He had been eccentric, and harmless, but he had possessed knowledge that no one would listen to. It had led to his death. I cringed, remembering the smell of moss and mud, the cry in the night, the figure that moved through the mist. I remembered the twisted body, one leg folded beneath it, the head hanging loosely on the rubbery neck. The image would not go away. I could not avoid the truth, no matter how ugly it might be. That murder was part of the truth, as was the other, earlier murder.
I found an amulet among my brother’s things. It was valuable. It belonged in a museum. I had wondered how Donald could have obtained it. On my first day at the ruins, I had stumbled across an identical amulet, old, priceless, the leather thong quite new. How many such amulets were there? Ted Roberts had seen several figures in white. Had each of them worn one? I believed now that Donald had found the amulet at the ruins, dropped there accidentally by one of the men, just as the one I had stumbled over had been. Burton Rodd had been looking for the amulet that day.… Burton Rodd had been in the woods immediately after Bertie’s death, and he seemed to be in league with the strange men who had come to Darkmead, the men with coarse, brutal faces. I wondered who they were. I wondered if they frequently wore white hoods and flowing white robes, if they had secret signals known only to each other, if they chanted and danced by moonlight and performed ritual ceremonies.… It seemed very likely.
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